


beats and measures

by Voca



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Abuse, Abusive Relationships, DJ!Dave, Humanstuck, Kidnapping, M/M, Pet Play, Rape, Underage - Freeform, adult!karkat, au where dave is shorter than karkat lmao, blood (at points), human!Karkat, musician!dave, non consensual sex, non-con
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-30
Updated: 2016-10-30
Packaged: 2018-08-27 21:32:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8417623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Voca/pseuds/Voca
Summary: Hey so uh this is my first attempt ever (and I mean ever, I've never done this before) at writing fanfiction. So PLEASE bear with me!!Anyways. Dave is 16 years old, an aspiring dj and music producer, but any aspect of what he was and wanted to be fades when, while walking to school one morning, a sharp pain hits his head and he blacks out. He wakes up handcuffed to what feels like a bedpost, and everything else is corrupt, fucked up history.[NOT SURE IF I'll CONTINUE. IT KINDA DEPENDS IF Y'ALL THIS ITS ALRIGHT OR NOT]





	

Measure one.  
First beat.  
The track starts. An ethereal piano fills your ears, playing a chord progression with such raw emotion that it pulls you into another realm and you’re distracted from what’s real. A world consisting of you, the melody and nothing else.  
Measure eight.  
Drums hit, pulling you further from reality with every kick, every snare. The hi-hats deepen your adrenaline, and the line between lucidity and delusion is blurred.  
Measure twelve.  
The buildup.  
Pace increases, along with your heartbeat. Halftime goes into quarter-time. It’s almost as if the entire planets rotation has doubled in speed and you are the center of gravity. The pitch rises, and you feel even higher, almost as if the vibration of your heartstrings matches the quickening vibrato of the synthesizer.  
The music begins to climax.  
And everything falls to nothing.  
The beat is gone. The ethereal sounds of the reverberating piano disappear, and all that’s left is the echoes of sixteen bars and the suspense of a drop.

After the sixteenth measure, Dave hit pause and closed his laptop, turning his head to his older brother. “That’s it. I haven’t written a drop yet, I guess my motivation up and left once it saw what a shitstorm it all is.” His brother let out a sigh. “I don’t see why you’re beating yourself up so much over it, little man. It sounds just fine.”  
Dave’s eyes sparked with annoyance “No, you don’t understand, bro. Nothings equalized right, the chord progression is more generic than a fucking clown in a straight-to-dvd horror movie.” He groaned, pushing his closed laptop away. “Nothing about it is right.”  
“Whatever you say, little man.” His older brother chuckled and stood up, walking out of his room “Make sure you get some rest, Dave, it’s getting late.” He shut the door and Dave glanced at his phone, showing 11:37pm. Muttering a remark about how humans should adapt to not having sleep, he turned his light off and got into bed, not even bothering to change clothes. Damn, he didn’t realize he was this tired. He dozed off, eventually falling into a deep slumber.

The next morning, he woke up at 5:00. In two hours he would have to leave for school, but until then he had some time to spare. Dave groggily rose from bed, rubbing his eyes. The warmth of his blanket made him consider that maybe he didn’t have to get out of bed today. Maybe he could just spend the whole day there, ditch school in his blankets. Bro might not even notice, he probably wouldn’t even care.   
After determining that it’s a pretty shitty way to think of things, the motivation finally came to stand up. Dave enjoyed waking up early, it gave him some time with his thoughts while the rest of the world counted sheep. Not feeling up to the challenge of looking his best for another day at school, the 16 year old opted for a pair of sweatpants, his typical shirt, and a red hoodie. Weatherman said to expect cold, and you fucking know he’d be prepared for it. He sat at his desk, opening his laptop and plugging his headphones in. He was greeted with his wallpaper, prompting him to enter his password. He stared a the blank screen in a half awake daze for a good ten minutes before he finally reached his fingers over the keyboard and swiftly entered his password. On his screen was still the project file for the track he’s been working on for the past three days.   
“Only sixteen measures for twelve hours of work. Fucking pathetic” he whispered to himself, scrolling through the different components of the song. He spent the next hour and a half tweaking every little detail of what he’s already worked on for so long. He examined every note, every frequency, every melody. Nothing felt right, just nothing at all.  
“Fuck it,” he muttered to himself, glancing at the clock. 6:55. He detached his headphones, closed his laptop and shoved it into his messenger bag along with his charger. Ensuring he had the correct binders for his school day, he prepared to head off. Dave slung the bag over his shoulder and left the apartment, deciding to skip breakfast. He made his way down the street, making a left at the hill.  
Fucking Mondays. The young boy plugged his headphones into his phone and began to listen to music. The lyrics echoed in his mind, a youthful song by Laszlo about running away, escaping the city and never returning home.  
“I believe that the weights won't take me down, when I'm not alone. I cannot come back this time, no, I'm not coming home”  
What a fucking masterpiece, Laszlo knows how to capture the feeling of escapism into a beautiful mix of melodies and vocals.  
Sometimes Dave imagined what it’s like to run away. He would wonder what it’s like to disappear- he thought of this when the lyrics read like poetry, and then it hit him.

Measure forty-eight. The build up is almost complete. The lyrics are dropped and the suspense for the drop increases.  
Measure forty-nine. Dave feels a sharp pain against the back of his head, a force so hard that it he falls to the ground.  
Measure fifty.  
The music begins to climax.  
And everything falls to nothing.  
The beat is gone.  
The first beat of the drop hits right as his headphones are torn from his ears and he loses consciousness.  
Measure fifty-one should be filled with energetic synths and a punchy bassline but instead it’s only filled with silence.  
Measure fifty-two. Silence.  
Measure fifty-three.  
Silence.


End file.
